Poems by Two Pals 



A 

Joseph H. Cooksey 
John E. Davenport 




COPYRIGHT 1922 
By 
J. H. Cooksey 
J. E. Davenport 



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DEC -2 22 

C1A689999 






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INTRODUCTION 



TWO reasons for the encouragement of 
the writing of poetry by college and uni- 
versity undergraduates at once occur to 
anyone who is interested in poetry: one is the 
evident fact that much excellent verse has been 
written, of late years, by undergraduates; the 
other is that, in a period when some literary 
forms bear the hall-marks of paganism and de- 
structive radicalism, poetry is still, in the main, 
sensibly idealistic. 

Not more than a score of years ago an un- 
dergraduate who sought to cultivate the poetic 
Muse wrote in privacy and secrecy. With a sense 
almost of guiltiness for pursuing something so 
irregularly outside of the curriculum, he breath- 
ed no word either of his achievements or his 
hopes to anyone, unless it were a fellow-student, 
and so he got little or no criticism that was at 
once mature and sympathetic. He never dreamt 
of publishing, unless it were in a college journal. 
Later, when ''shades of the prison-house'' began 
to close upon him, he became absorbed in new 
issues is life, forgot his earlier devotion, and 
possibly deprived the world of one more note of 
cheer, beauty, and optimism. All this has been 
changed. The writing of college verse, or rather 
of verse by college students, is rapidly coming 
into its own. Courses which provide a technical 
equipment are now given in most universities; 
criticism may be obtained for the asking ; poets 
of recognized worth and achievement have even 
been brought into residence in some college 
communities to aid and inspire. The results have 
been gratifying, for poetry of genuine worth 
and beauty has in this way been produced. In- 



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dependent volumes have been published; an- 
thologies have been compiled. The poets of the 
past, many of them, have been poets in spite of 
their alma mater; those of the future, let us hope, 
may owe her a debt of deeper gratitude. 

Then, too, in an age in which many of the 
finer sentiments of life have been brutalised by 
war, poetry alone has consistently maintained 
the worth of ideals of beauty for man. If on 
occasion, as with Masefield, she has gone afield 
to find her material, she has still not failed in 
her flight against the sun. With the progress 
of man, perhaps even with his decline, new sub- 
jects are both desirable and inevitable; but loss 
of faith, not in futile ideals, but in the inherent 
worth of man and in the struggle to which he is 
committed spells despair. Doubtless, some 
*'hopes were dupes" to which men have clung; 
but also '*fears may be liars;'' and that part of 
poetry which has abandoned life to chaos has 
brought no new grounds for either faith or hope. 
Most poetry, happily, has looked ^'westward" 
and seen that ''the land is bright." It has, even 
ardently, advocated the cause of beauty and dis- 
closed the worth of rational ideals. 

The poems which follow have been written 
by two undergraduates; and, though they differ 
sharply in form and theme, they have a common 
note of optimism and idealism; at times they are 
marked by beauty of phrase and conception. 
One group seeks to bring beauty down to earth; 
the other aims to raise earth to some realm of 
beauty. In this sense they have a common pur- 
pose and theme, though their starting points are 
opposite poles. The event of the publication of 
these poems, especially as an independent ven- 
ture, is interesting; how important it may prove 
to be can be determined only by the future per- 
formance of each author. 

A. H. R. Fairchild 

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PART I 



BY 



JOSEPH H. COOKSEY 



PREFACE 



O MOULD you ask me, gentle reader, 
i \ Where my haunts of themes are stored, 
^"^ / should state around all lobbies 
Where the minds of men are lowered. 
And where angel forms are auctioned 
For mere pleasure and for gold; 
Where damnation s store-house opens 
To the wayward soul of man; 
Where fair maidens, sweet as lilies, 
Through the sympathies of man, 
Are placed beyond the walls of justice, — 
Virtue there s a contraband; 
Where the beauteous laws of nature 
Guide the actions of each creature. 
Give to mountains all their splendor. 
Give its rocks, trees and grasses, 
Give to each its beauteous color; 
Where the rosebud and the lilies. 
With their purity unequaled, 
Bloom to fade and be forgotten; 
Where the brooklet meets the river. 
Where the river meets the sea: — 
All of these form thought and topic, 
God through nature speaks to me. 



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''MY DESIRE' 

OGODy let me live 
As I ought to live. 
O God, let me love 
As I ought to love. 
And when the days of toil are o'er 
And the sun of life, as dawns the infant day, 
Is sinking slowly through the years of time 
I only hope, that I may put to sea 
And sail towards the setting sun of life, 
With smiling face, and heart contentedly. 
And when the dawn is o'er. 
Let there a picture be 
Of her who gave to me 
Desire and hope, through love's own Liberty. 



TO THE SNAIL SHELL 

O LITTLE spiral from the inland bay. 
How came thou to grow and be 
V One of mere simplicity, 
Simple in form and nature only. 
It seems as thou must be so lonely 
Creeping, and creeping all day long 
Without a word and without a songf 
It may seem thus, but that's my nature; 
I am a queer and a tiny creature, 
God made me so, so therefore I 
Am unable to sing and unable to fly, 
So as God has willed, so will it be 
Of every creature on land or sea. 
It makes no difference how hard we try. 
Each tiny creature must live to die. 



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''THE C ARAVAN" 

PRELUDE 

^^OME, darkening night! 
t J Let all thy shadows jail 
^"^^ About this weird form of mine. 

Encircling all! 

Therein let shapes appear. 

Such as haunt those darker, drearer realms 

Of that fair nook, 

Wherein all evil hides away 

From the glorious lamp-light of the day. 

/. 

As nightly visions slowly closed around. 

Encircling all in gloom, with varied form. 

From out those darker realms 

Doth creep the ''hell dog'' from his den. 

To greet a fair, sweet maid. 

Who had, as nightly visions round. 

Stole 'way, as one from out her nurse's care. 

To find a fairer, brighter place, wherein to dwell. 

For home, it seemed, had been to her 

Far from a fair haven — yes, to her, a "hell." 

But ere she had her humble dwelling spent. 

Temptations came, with sentiment too strong; 

That tender, careworn mind, could resist it not. 



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As she walked slow, hurt and alone, 

Down a long and winding lane. 

In search of shelter. 

She grew weary, from the task, 

And thereby paused to rest her wearied limbs. 

And there, by chance, the ''hell dog'' lurking 

'Bout, came forth to meet and greet 

This careworn maid, 

With sympathizing tones upon his lips 

To soothe, with generosity of human kind. 

The weary eyes ere they were closed 

In weary sleep. Sleep, 

That comes to careworn creatures 

Of that great pretending class of human kind. 



III. 

He fondled, sympathized, and placed a means 
Whereby she could, ere light of morning come. 
Reach that fair haven which awaited her 
Within the city's walls of gaiety; 
Where life would be as pleasure, and the drudg- 
ery of work 
Would ne'er come to soil those fairy hands. 
She, believing all to be as previous prophesied. 
Went forth unto the city, while the night 
Still hovered 'bout and closed from vieiv 
The previous light of day. 
Which had, but few hours hence. 
Given light unto the world 
That it might see and know 
Of things that come to pass 

Ere darkness hovered 'bout and hid from view 
The awfulness of sin. 



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IV. 

Oy incarnate being, ye. 

The interpreter of ''hell/' 

Wearing still the cloak of human 'bout your 

form, 
So as to keep from view the inner part, 
Lest victims, seeing, would come to know 
And shun you as the serpent. 
Which right you are, in all respects. 
Contriving all; yet far more treacherous 
Is your attitude; 
For greater are damnation s cunning ways. 

V. 

Ere daybreak came this careworn maid had 

found 
A haven wherein all through the night the red- 
dish glare 
Poured forth to signify that within its walls 
Damnation was content to hold and serve as 

compensation 
Such fairy forms as circumstance might bring 
For refuge from starvation s warning call; 
And ofttimes passion is too great to resist the 

tempter. 
Who as brute, lacks that which makes one staid; 
Aye, yes, lacks character. 
Doth send for refuge from the outer world 
Such fairy beings as there might be entrapped 
Ere public gossips, ''hell hags" and the like 
Should grasp the truth and tear it in a thousand 

tangled tales. 
Each bearing witness 'gainst her character. 



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VI. 

Days and nights of undue torture passed 

Till careworn maid grew weary of her task, 

And noting then the awfulness of sin 

Bowed down her head to God, 

And asked in vain 

That he forgive, and kindly take her in 

Ere she be forced to cross the sea of sin. 

Where undue torture ever enters in 

To punish souls which ignorant of the fact. 

Hath done a misdemeanor unto Him, 

Yet tho, in part, for awfulness of sin. 

The punishment is two-fold. 

The human heart must suffer from the act. 

While yet it doth maintain the inner form. 

Then, ere death shall enter in. 

And separate affection s seat from soul 

That it might pass in fashions tremulous 

To unseen quarters where, forevermore. 

The punishment's in proportion to the sin. 



FIL 

At eventide this careworn maid stood firm, 

And battled 'gainst sins defying ways 

Until, from out the westward way, 

A light appeared, as coming day. 

And then, alas! a voice from out the distance 

called 
''Come, fair one, and join our noble band. 
The ever-ending 'Caravan which guides us to 

yon shore 
Where tears are done; where days are one. 
And Knights of Sin shall reign no more." 



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IS THERE A GOD 

/S there a God, 
Who rules that unseen sphere, 
Where destinies of man on scrolls appear, 
Marked and unchanged by man s skilled handf 
Is there a God, 
Who rules the mind of men. 
Who places faith within the human soul. 
Who gives to man a mother s love and then. 
Partakes in marking him amongst the foe? 
Or is He a God, 
Who joys with our sins. 
Who smiles at ill contempt of human souls, 
Who joys with our vengeance? Yes, and then. 
Smiles at our attempt to make our goal — no. 
Yes, there is a God, 
One who rules that unseen sphere. 
Who places faith within the human soul 
And gives to all the world its glorious sphere, 
Who keeps the ''Book of Life," and marks the 
toll 



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THE WANDERER 

"71 TO one came to say goodbye, 
I \ ^o one stood at the window. 

All there was to pacify 
Was the glimpse of the starlit eastern sky. 
I gazed to the west, I gazed to the east, 
I, Hank Harman, the roaming beast, 
Was I man or beast, knew I not. 
Yet a mother s love Christ's word had taught. 
So ^whither it be I went my way. 
Paying no heed to the future day, 
O God! Why is it? Why must it be 
That I should wander far from theef 
Vve sought the low and the degraded way, 
Vve walked the paths where betrayers play. 
In the ''Red Lighf district Vve wandered oft, 
In the bar room, too, the cup Fve quaffed. 
Over land and sea Fve wandered. 
Over prairie, hill and vale. 
Over mountain, ravine and desert. 
And on foreign waters sailed, 
Vve stepped to the lowest of mankind, 
Vve stood where betrayers stand. 
And Vve walked oft times in the evening. 
With discouragement hand in hand, 
Vve seen where the sweetest of angels 
(Those angels of human form) 
Go down to their degradation. 
Go down to the world of scorn. 
So I shed a tear for the wicked. 
For the evil of man I mourn. 
Though you live in the world of temptation 
Concede to the laws of the nation. 
So straighten right up, just the best you can. 
And say to the world, Vll be a man. 



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THE BLUSH 

A WAKE, ye winds of mystery, 
/-I Awake, and let thy breezes blow ajar 
Into those realms of human sympathies. 
Where right and justice stand before the bar. 
To judge the actions of a worldly kingdom. 
Which through \creed and greed would place 

upon a race 
Damnation s infirm statutes, to live and pass, but 

as a dying day. 
To be as a race without a home. 
To hide thy face with shame, where virtue peeks 
To witness, as they grapple at the door. 
The blush, which is but sin 
That neer can be forgiven. 
But which shall as the setting of the sun 
Hold firm fulfillment till the world is done. 



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WHEN A MAN'S A MAN 

yi MAN is a man when through love s great 
/-\ power 

He can see the beauty in every flower, 
Where the voices of nature speak and say, 
''Out to the wild woods, out and away;' 
Where God's tender mercies are ever shown, 
As each little blossom has a shape of its own. 
And each little blossom looks up as to say, 
'Tm one of God's beauties, I come from the clay. 
And through each tender blossom God smiles in 

His way!' 
A man is a man when to the world he can say, 
I stand as a man amongst m^en today, 
I live for the right and for the justice of all, 
I live to this motto, and may it be true: 
''Do unto all others as they unto you," 
Wherefore in God's mercy, the light of the day 
Stands out as to say, "There's a man," 
For he lived that way. 



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PART II 

BY 

JOHN E. DAVENPORT 



NOCTURNE 



^ I ^ HE weeping moon smiles sadly on the 
I hilL., 

Within the wood 
Like silver bells the brook' slow gurgles spill. . . 
All else is still. . , 
In troubled mood 
I press the crinkled sod and find it good . . . 

The frosty leaves caress my burning face 
With soothing pain . . . 

The moon s soft rays reveal a fairy grace 
Of ragged lace . . . 
The kindly rain 

Fingers my cheeks and bids me weep again. . . 



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OLD AGE 

/AM weary of watching the slinking moon- 
beams creep 
With listless stealth across the sleeping 
wood. . . 
/ am iveary of hearing the dull, monotonous 

cheep 
Of disillusioned birds . . . 

. . .Ah, if I could, 
The carefree trail to nowhere would I take, 
Leaving behind this drab, gray world of dreams. 
Loafing, a happy wanderer, nought at stake 
Save sighing trees, and laughing flow of 

streams . . . 
But now it cannot be. . .1 have lived too long. . . 
October, and not April, dwells with me. 
And sere November, with his chilling song. 
Stands in the hall of bloomless memory . . . 

And I — the urge of springtime in my veins — 
Can only watch the fete where April reigns . . . 



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D 



''THE POPPIED SLEEP" 

EAD eyes, look not so gently into mine! 

Dead lips, smile not so sweetly from the 
grave! 

Musk'laden hair, sweep not your burning wave 
Over my face to sear it with the brine 
Of unshed tears! Dear phantom of the dark, 
Glide softly hence and leave me to my dream 
Of vanished joys that, in '/^ silent stream 
Of pallid beauty, press their timeless mark 
Deep in my souL Ah, leave me, cherished dead 
That art so dear, being lost forevermore! 
The weeping moon slips slowly through my 

door . . . 
Ashes of dreams sift down upon my head . . . 
Leave me my griefs and, in remorseful sleep. 
Send the remembering tears and let me weep . . . 



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OCTOBER 

T T NDER the molten sky 

I / The blasted harvest-fields lie 

stripped and bare. 
The rusty cornstalks, husks of life gone by. 
Rot in the sultry air. 

All yellow, brown and red, 
The twisted leaves hang listless on the boughs. 
Below, like patient watchers over the dead, 
The dreaming cattle browse . . . 

The day, reluctant, yields 
To the night. With bleating faint and queru- 
lous. 
The laggard sheep, dim clouds across the fields, 
Sound forth the farmer s angelus . . . 



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REMEMBRANCE 

OH, to creep back at twilight through the 
past 
And bring to mind lost love with new de- 
spair; 
Reopen half-healed wounds, painfully sweet; 
Again to welcome, veiled by misty hair. 
The joy-dawn of the smile that vanished fast. 
Then came again, shadowy yet complete! 

Oh, to remember, in the emptiness. 

How Love laughed through the branches of the 

trees; 
To stroll once more a lane of quiet light; 
Again to taste the kisses of the breeze; 
To feel her silent presence in the night. . . 

And, over all, as heavy memories press, 
Recall the bitter pain. . .and loneliness . . . 
The heart-break. . .and the haunting loneli- 
ness. . . 



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REVERIE 

71 /¥ I STY moonlight gleaming 

/ wi Over the spangled mere; 

Ghostly tree-tops seeming 

Bending low to hear 
Muted cascades splashing 

Beneath the paddle stroke; 
Cheery firelight flashing; 

Swirling nets of^ smoke; 
Hazy bats awheeling; 

There a musky' s rush; 
Lazy voices stealing 

Through the twilight hush; 
Dream-fraught whispers swelling 

In a magic maze; 
Eyes with passion welling 

Beneath a loved one's gaze; 
Lovers' accents blending 

In a gentle croon; 
Murmurs never ending; 

Just a night in June, 



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PROMISE 

T ][ T ITH tremulous eyes shining sweet 
1/1/ Through the dusk of the years, 

And quivering lips calling low 

Through the forests of sleep, 
You vanished on lingering feet 

From my sight . . . Through my tears 
I watched the last faint thread of glow 

From the sun sadly seep 
Away into dusk . . .In the mist 

A thin wailing crept back 
To my ears , . .From the embers of dream 

The last radiance fled 
On fleet wings . . . Yet I still have a tryst 

I shall keep when the wrack 
Of the stars brings the dawn of the gleam 

From the eyes of the dead . . . 
I shall keep a long tryst with the dead. . . 



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TO B. H. 

T 7" OUR arms are quiet music in the nighty 
\ When clamor of the noon has fled away. 
Weaving a dreamy peace within my 
soul. . . 
Your eyes are shadowy pools of shifting light. 
With bubbling darkness as of dancing spray, 
Or glinting water in a whirlpool's hole. . . 
Your hair is fragrant wine whose cheering heat 
Covers my face and thrills me to the heart. 
Soothing the fevered tumult in my blood. . . 
Your lips pluck at my soul with anguish sweet. 
Healing, for all they cause, the rapturous smart. 
Tumbling my thoughts like flotsam on a flood . . . 
You are the kindly moon whose drifting face 
Smiles into mine with haunting, mystic grace. 



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DREAM-LIE 

LAST night I held you close to me 
And drank sweet madness from your lips. 
My hungry eyes gazed in your eyes 
Moon-deep, with laughter bubbling through . . . 
Your fragrant hair szvept over me, 
Branding my face with waving dips 
Dream-laden . . . Under starry skies 
I felt myself in heaven with you ... 

The vision passed . . . With burning head 
I woke and strove to call you back . . . 
Fragments of dreams seethed in my mind . . . 
Rose petals fluttered where you fled , . . 
/ strained my ears into the black 
And heard — the moaning of the wind ... 



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MIDNIGHT 

THE wind is sobbing . . , sobbing through 
the night. 
His haggard cheeks glisten with clinging 
tears 
Dripping in hopeless grief . . . The scared moon 

peers 
Half fearfully from curtains, dusky white, 
That veil her in warm mist. . ,Out of the night 
Dim shadows cower as the street lamp veers. 
Mocking the widowed night with chuckling 

sneers. 
Scorning her loneliness . . .her lost delight. . . 

The threatening streets are slimy with the rain. 
The scribbled roof-tops seem like giants of old 
Against the sky. The stars, in maudlin glee. 
Deride the sad moons glory. A passing train 
Shatters the heavy silence. . .Alone and cold. 
The tired wind moans in anguish to be free . . . 



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I TRRftRY OF CONGRESS 

Mi 



